laugh, told her what he wanted to do to her when she reached him. He described in vivid delectable detail his reward for her victory. How she had giggled at his wicked suggestions, feeling a hot blush creep up her neck but when her hand flew to her mouth, her balance fled. She lost her footing and plunged to the frigid water.
Kyndee remembered hearing him scream her name, felt him dragging her from the river. He had cradled her in his arms, trying to give her warmth from the icy water. He had rocked her, murmured how sorry he was and in a voice laden with panicked urgency begged her to please, please open her eyes.
The rest had been a haze. She had awakened the next morning with a heavy splint on her arm, a nauseating dizziness in her head, and a strict order to stay flat in bed for a week.
"He was a rascal, that one. There’s no denying it," Maggie agreed, sitting on the edge of the bed, the palm of her hand smoothing Kyndee's hair with a maternal tenderness.
"Everyone called him a rascal and a scamp but they didn't understand him the way I did." Kyndee could picture him presenting her with his latest brainstorm. Fletcher had possessed a mature and ingenious mind that was far beyond his years. His clever inventions were fondly remembered, mostly for their failures, but he never ceased to amaze her with his ideas and his tenacity.
His father had adored him, but Fletcher often frustrated him beyond bearing. He called his son's tinkering ‘rattlebrained’ and constantly demanded he settle down to learning the proper affairs that a plantation owner's son should know. Fletcher had also infuriated his tutors, mainly because he usually knew more than they did and promptly told them so. More than once he was soundly beaten for his impertinence. However none of it had ever seemed to have an adverse effect on him.
Seabrook, Samuel Stedman's plantation, was one of the wealthiest in the State and, as its sole heir, Fletcher had been the crown prince. Even though he had been raised with countless servants milling about to do his bidding, he was neither arrogant nor mean and could not abide those traits in others. But that was a side of himself which he showed only to those he loved. To the rest of the world he was proud and honorable Fletcher Stedman, a worthy opponent and formidable enemy to all who dared to cheat him. Because confrontation was not something he backed away from, he had his share of scuffles, returning home sporting numerous scrapes and bruises. But his sturdy build and forbidding expression when crossed usually forestalled any violence before it began. He had known the power wielded by his name and position and had used it to its fullest advantage both in righting his grievances and appeasing his lusty insatiable appetite for life. His wit was still legendary as was his wicked daring grin that could have charmed the song from the birds if he so desired it. He was simply Fletcher, which is what she had loved most about him. There was no tree he couldn't climb, no horse he couldn't ride, no aim as true, no problem he couldn't solve in one way or another.
Without fearing God's wrath for her impudence, Kyndee had always thought Fletcher one of His most magnificent creations—not only in his physical features but in his recklessly bold yet tender nature as well. Truly Samuel Stedman had sired a unique and brilliant promise of a man in the form of his son.
Maggie's hand on her shoulder brought Kyndee back to reality. "I best go back downstairs. I just wanted to see a smile back on my sweet child's face." After Maggie left, Kyndee locked her door and curled herself in the middle of her bed.
Fletcher could always make her smile and laugh. He could make her cry, too, and he did that sometimes—just because, he often told her as he trailed his fingertips along her cheek, he wanted to prove to her that he could always make her smile.
Kyndee gripped the pillow closer to her breast. "Fletcher, how could whatever goddess took you for her own have left me here alone to pine for you? Surely I had not been so wicked that I deserved such a fate." She turned over her pillow, having dampened one side with the tears that cascaded from her now red-rimmed eyes.
The day she had been told of his disappearance had been the most gruesome of her life. It was as if a portion of her very soul had been stripped from her. His loss left a gaping bleeding hole in her grieving heart that never healed. It had sealed, yes, but not healed. She walled it in, day by day, as the hope of his returning alive grew dim, until there was nothing left but a wall—harsh and hard and impenetrable.
As the seasons had passed, she had grown sullen and quiet. Although gentlemen paid suit, none came to ask for her hand. Somehow that had pleased her and life had dragged on.
Until now.
He came. And for some reason he wanted her. He was Fletcher's cousin: the one who had been taken in by Fletcher's parents when his own parents had been tragically killed; the one who never disobeyed the rules; the one who won over every adult with his overbearing politeness; the one who was so envious of Fletcher he could have choked on his jealousy; the one who was with Fletcher the day he disappeared; the one who now occupied Fletcher's place, his home, and his rights to the Seabrook Plantation.
He was Buck Bannistre, and she was wary of him. Kyndee wasn't exactly sure why she felt that way, but there was satisfied look about him that plagued her.
Maybe it was because he had returned while Fletcher hadn't. Maybe it was because his sorrow over Fletcher's disappearance had seemed a little too great; maybe because his move into Fletcher's position had seemed a little too soon. Maybe it was because his formal adoption as Samuel Stedman's legal son and heir made Fletcher's loss a brutal reality. Maybe it was all those things or maybe it was none of them. She didn't know.
One thing she knew for sure. Not even the devil himself could force her into marrying Buck Bannistre Stedman. Kyndee covered her eyes with her palms and wept bitterly, knowing and fearing how persuasive the devil could be.
CHAPTER ONE
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Leading his horse, Fletcher came into town on foot as the daylight was fading. The horse had thrown a shoe, and he didn't want to chance buggering the leg—Whiz was too precious to him. Like Fletcher himself, the giant sorrel had been abused and discarded. He had spent weeks gentling the animal and winning its trust and respect.
The equine was striking in appearance with a wide blaze and three tall socks. The left front leg had a white marking in the jagged zigzag shape of a lightning bolt, and it extended the length of the cannon bone. Because of the uniqueness, Fletcher had named him Wizard. The horse also had a propensity for anticipating commands before they were given. The two were kindred spirits traveling together.
Within minutes, he found the livery. The farrier looked up as Fletcher entered. "What can I do for you?" he asked in a brusque tone, sweat beaded on his brow.
"My horse threw a shoe a couple of miles back. I need him ready to travel as soon as possible."
The stocky farrier wiped his hands on a blackened cloth and inspected the horse's hoof. "I've a lot of work ahead of you. But I can possibly get to him today or tomorrow. Put him in the stall over there, and I'll get to him when I can." He turned back to his forge and pumped the bellows, causing the fire and shoe placed within it to glow red-hot.
Fletcher ran his hand over his horse's neck, and Whiz nickered. "Will my horse be well fed and watered while he's here?"
"Look, mister," the farrier grumbled as he glanced back. "I'm not running a fancy hotel for horses—" He obviously saw Fletcher's face darken with quick anger, and the six feet two inch frame stiffen, because he clamped his mouth shut and looked away. "Yes, sir." he muttered. "The horse'll be bedded down fine."
After leading his exhausted horse into a stall, Fletcher inquired with a caustic edge to his
